


High in Tears

by IFrozeYourCookie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Misunderstandings, One Shot, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Sad, Self-Harm, Unrequited Love, but not sorry enough to stop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IFrozeYourCookie/pseuds/IFrozeYourCookie
Summary: Inspired by a tumblr post when John visits Sherlock weeks after his wedding and his so-called Sex Holiday to find Sherlock in a terrible state, lack of self-care and eyes red-rimmed, only to assume the worst about his condition.





	High in Tears

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I'm writing to make myself feel better because of my terrible fic previous to this. It might be just as shitty so you don't have to point that out, because I know.  
> Mentions of drug use is based on my very little experience on it so it may not be the most accurate thing but this is the only thing you're going to get for now.

 

Drugs are liquid gold that runs through your veins, dancing with your blood in the streams under your skin. You don't need the adrenaline from running around London or the thrill of solving an impossible case to feel the bliss. All you need are syringes and pure crystals to blur your vision from the bad of the world.

 

* * *

 

    _It's too cold, and everything hurts._

   He wiped the perspiration on his temple with the back of his hand.  _Cold sweats; simply inconvenient._  He's shivering terribly but the touch of the softest fabric only stings to him. Mycroft had threaten him with the promise of rehabilitation centre if he as much as opened his supply box to 'heighten his thought processes' when in reality he just wanted to feel nothing, feel numb because shedding tears for days straight wasn't his usual demeanor and it felt foreign. But those miraculous substances only help for the first few moments, before he could feel how fast he was plunging deep into the abyss of nothingness. He's craving for a fix. He  _needs_  a fix, but everyone that still cared enough tend to remind him that this would've angered John. 

    _John._

   Last he clapped eyes on that precious doctor was on the night of his wedding, after he deduced Mary's pregnancy-the third Watson that would eventually be the permanent glue between the couple. The thought that he definitely had no chance for John anymore was tremendously hurtful and he just couldn't be reminded by the idea, so he left, early.  _It's the end of an era_. He knew that as the best man, he should've stayed with John until the end of the event, but as per mentioned before, he just couldn't.

   He's trembling on his bed, the crook of his arm itching to feel a sharp needle pierce through and his body felt like being compressed from bone to bone until it's breaking just like how his mind was. Breaking, and a complete mess. Information passed in lightning speed in his mind, difficult to catch up on what's happening but the most repetitive thought had always been about his ex-flatmate. He tried to stand up and walk to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson had kept his painkillers and aspirin. It doesn't help, but it's at least made the withdrawal more bearable.

   He slouched against the kitchen counter while opening the prescription bottle to see the darkness of the night from between the flapping curtains.  _How long was I in my room?_  Judging by the still noisy street filled with car engine and useless chatter, it's more probable to assume it's around 8-9 at night instead of around midnight. Mrs. Hudson would come upstairs to check up on him in a few, because bless her, she always made sure to keep him grounded and not stay in too deep in his thoughts. Gulping the last drop of water he used to swallow the pills, he walked back out on his way to his bedroom but was too much in pain and fatigue to move too far, so he slumped onto the nearest alternative he could reach; John's chair. It's comfier than the kitchen chair, so this would do. Maybe he'll ask for Mrs. Hudson's assistance to move back in his bedroom.

   Almost on cue, he heard short murmurs from the landlady. But, he could also hear the voice of someone else. Recognizable but indistinctive from that distance because it was as if they were whispering, cautious of their tone in case Sherlock would be shocked by a generic volume of speech. He tried to reposition himself so that his hearing isn't blocked by the soft cushion of the sofa. What he heard sounded like an exchange of concerns. Not surprising considering his state but he's curious on who cared enough to check up on him apart from his landlady and occasionally, his brother or DI Lestrade.

   "He doesn't eat what I bring him. Maybe  _you_  can try to convince him somehow, please," he heard Mrs. Hudson plead to this person.

   "Yeah, he always does that. It's not like it never happened," he knows he's familiar with the voice, but that must be impossible, right?

   "It's different! He at least drinks the tea I make him every morning or bite on some scones I brought up but the only thing he's eating is his pills. You need to check up on him,"

   "Alright, alright. Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. I'll see what I can do," sounded like a cue for this person to come up, with or without Mrs. Hudson.

   "Thank you, John,"  _John. Well shit. It's really him, then._

   He would want to instinctively run to his bedroom, pretending to be asleep but he's rather weak right then especially after consuming some pills that'll sure induce some sleepiness in him, so he just curled up on John's old chair, resting his head on one of the armrests. He heard the soft creaks of the stairs as who was said to be John, comes nearer to his flat. Once the creaks stopped, that's when he heard John's voice, clear, after a few weeks of absence physically and  _real_  after having hallucinated him from taking some hallucinogens _(was it LSD or mescaline? I'm not so sure. Pretty sure it was LSD but the dealer gave him a taste of mescaline afterwards)._

"Sherlock?" John called out with a soothing tone. Mrs. Hudson must've warned him beforehand. Sherlock wanted to respond, call out his name as soothing as John did with his, but his voice was stuck at his throat. All he could manage was a raspy hum, just to indicate his whereabout.  _John isn't that stupid. Of course he could use his common sense to trail the source of sound_. Sherlock could feel John's presence nearing him and when he touched Sherlock's shoulder, he unintentionally flinched at the touch but didn't make any reassuring or apologetic eye contact afterwards anyway.

   "Hey... How are you?" Starting off friendly. That's good. Right?

   "I thought my well-being is rather obvious, even for you,  _doctor_ ," A bit harsh, but he's not in any positive mood in this state. John pursed his lips at this treatment.

   "Mary suggested I come by and check up on you. She realized I was worried how you were doing and frankly, she's just as worried," Mary was a fine woman. Sherlock doesn't hate her. He's just jealous of her for being able to get John but  _he_  can't. He managed a weak smile as he looked at the tremors in his hand.

   "Thank you. And thank her for me. It's... nice of you two to worry even during your Sex Holiday,"

   "Honeymoon, Sherlock. It's  _honeymoon_ ,"  John corrected and Sherlock was sure he could hear a faint chuckle at the end of it. Both of them missed the nonsense in their daily conversations from when they were still living together. Sherlock looked up slowly to savor the smile on John's face while he's still here but he had only contrived a few moments of it before John's smile faded. Confusion was plastered across Sherlock's face and bewilderment on John's face.

   "What?"

   "Sherlock? Are you... high? Right now?" both of them frowned at this question.  _This is bloody ridiculous._

   "Wh- no!" he protested but the rise of volume caused him to cough a little too hard and John in hesitation from the previous flinch, rubbed his back in a feather-light touch. He left Sherlock's side for a quick trip to the kitchen and brought back a glass of warm water for Sherlock to ease his throat from the harsh and abrupt reflex. He nodded a gratitude before preparing himself for a continuation of the conversation when he saw John crouched down in front of him.

   "Sherlock. Tell me the truth?"

   "I didn't lie the first time. I'm not a malingerer, for fucks sake, John," he rolled his eyes but that stupid movement only made his headache worse.

   "Then why are your eyes red and puffy? Your pupils very much dilated? Was it cocaine or marijuana?"  _Why wont he believe me? Ugh._

   "My pupils are dilated because of the evident lack of light in this room. My eyes are red not from drugs, or at least not anymore, John. It's red because... because, I've been...  _crying_ ," he spat out the last word in shame. The great Sherlock Holmes should've had the heart of stone and mind of steel. Not of ice that can be melted per command of heat. John was clearly shocked by this revelation. Of course even  _he_  couldn't believe Sherlock have proper human emotions. Well, he  _did_  labelled him as a machine anyway. He's not supposed to be human. Crying was almost the same as drugs, though. It's a relieve but it also hurts. It's a different kind of high-an empty feeling instead of a drug-addled euphoria.

   "Why didn't you call me? You could talk to me," John asked gently as he rubbed Sherlock's shoulder when he saw how much he'd been shivering on the chair.

   "I can't,"

   "Why not?"

   "Because, I would just be a bother. You have Mary now," he sighed. As painful as it is to say it, it's the truth. John looked away for a second, as if punched with a guilty realization.

   "You may be a handful, Sherlock. But you're never, ever, a bother to me, okay? You're still an important piece of my life. I wont just let you slip away dealing with your personal problems by yourself," he gave a small smile which Sherlock responded with a smile of his own. When he saw Sherlock was struggling to find words to reply to this, he slowly pulled Sherlock up, cautious to not irritate his skin, and softly hug him close, trying to reassure him of what he said. Sherlock hid his face in the crook of John's neck and tugged on the back of John's shirt, scared to let go as if doing so would make John disappear. He can't tell John why he was crying. John was already in a happy domestic environment and Sherlock was happy for them. But he supposed, this was at least a good start to repairing what had broke from the night of the wedding.

   "Thank you, John,"

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry the ending might seem rushed but I was sleepy and exhausted, body aching all over. And if I were to draft it to be continued tomorrow or some other time, there wont be 'other time' I would be looking at an unfinished work and have the same motivation to end it as much as I was to start it. So this is all you gonna get :)  
> Sorry not sorry


End file.
